As a second tractor father went quite modern and bought the latest Fordson, a Fordson Major, basically it was a "long legged" version if the Standard Fordson, only these had three point linkage and side brakes and taller rear wheels.
Along with it he had a two furrow mounted Ford Ransome plough, and a nine tined cultivator, he had already got a set of trailed Massy discs, and he had corn drill, it was an eleven spout Massy Harris coulter drill. This had been converted from a long pole for two shires horses to pull, to a short one with a clevis to hook behind his tractor. He had done a similar amputation on the pole of his binder.
The corn drill now could be pulled at a fast four miles an hour all day, with just the stops for filling the hopper. Across the back of the drill was a long handle that the man driving the horses could lift and lower the drill spouts, it also put the metering of the grain out of gear at the same time. Now it was pulled by the tractor a "running board" had to be fitted for a man to ride on the back to operate the handle and check that all the spouts were running. This made it a two man job although they were able to cover a greater acreage than he would with the horses.
He didn't stick that set up for many more years, as the drill was getting run off its wheels, wheels with wooden fellows and iron spokes, and the coulters badly worn.
It was after he had changed his old Standard Fordson for a Diesel Major he bought a new drill, this was a Massy Harris combine drill that he was able to sow the fertilizer at the same time as the corn. This had disc coulters and a trip cord for lifting and lowering the discs, and meant that once again it was a one man job. On good going this could be pulled at six to eight miles an hour, the new Major had six forward gears and the fifth gear was just right in dry conditions.
The drill still had steel wheels and had thirteen spout/ discs and because of the corrosive fertilizer it had rubber pipes to the coulters. Some of the fertilizer father bought was Humber Fish Muck, as it says its from the docks at Humberside, this was stinking job and came in powder form. It came in fine mesh hessian sacks of 1cwt. (50kg to you lads) and was unloaded off the delivery lorry, carried on ya back into a shed and stacked, then man handled out again onto a cart to take in the field.
Originally father had a horse drawn fertilizer spreader which had two large wheel at each end of a long box (hopper), in the bottom of the hopper was a row of plates, like dinner plates that turned slowly, with half of the plate inside the hopper and half carried the fertilizer out behind the hopper, this gap had a plough type scraper that could be adjusted to what amount of fertilizer was required. Then just above the plate at the back were two spinners to each plate, these were on a long full width rod to flick the product out. It was called a "Plate and Flicker" spreader. So this plate and flicker spreader became redundant for the spreading on corn ground, although he had fitted it with a drawbar.
When the Humber Fish muck was put in the combine drill on a dry day it went through very well, but on a foggy autumn days it clogged down the rubber spouts and every now and then they had to be taken off and cleared out, this meant a man had got to ride on the back to make sure all spouts were running. At a later stage the fertilizer company became aware of this problem with these new types of drills and started to produce it in granule form to try to over come the clogging.
In time the manufacturers brought out granulate compound fertilizer, which ran more reliably through the drill and these were sold in plastic fertilizer bags, when these had been man handled on and off transport a number of times they got pin holes and tares that would let in the damp and go rock hard. Then it became palletised. And later still into one half ton bags and then realised they could not get a full load of twenty tons on an artic trailer bed and upped the content to 600kg's.
All of my years I have ploughed.
All of my years, I have ploughed the fields,
To grow the crops, produce good yields,
Once was done, with teams of horses,
An acre a day ploughed, with frequent pauses.
The pace was slow, but made no mess,
No skidding or ruts, for them to address,
Seed broadcast by hand, or horse drawn drill,
Harrowed to cover, seed sown with skill.
Always a rotation, few annual weeds,
Do not get a hold , not aloud to set seed,
Thistles in the corn, hoed out with a spud,
Walked through the crop, pull all docks you could.
Cut crop with a binder, three shires to pull,
Followed by the men, stook the sheaves by armful,
Stays in the stook for two church bells,
Carted and stacked, threshed in winter grain to sell.
Countryman
Seeds of faith are always within us; sometimes it takes a crisis to nourish and encourage their growth.
Susan Taylor
It was said by the old men that the water should "trot" onto the fields, and "gallop" off.
On our low lying meadows there is still evidence of the very old style of management the "bedwork or floated water meadows" , where channels carry water onto the fields from the stream. At the upstream end a sluice was built with simple grooves in the brickwork where balks of timber could be slotted in to hold the stream to a suitable hydrostatic head where by it was diverted along carrier channels around the edge of the meadow to be flooded, some times these would be along the top of formed humps to allow the water to reach the next fields. The levels as you can imagine are very critical, it was said by the old men that the water should "trot" onto the fields, and "gallop" off.
Standing water was not acceptable as it would kill the grass by starving the ground of oxygen, the running water carried nutrients in the silt and oxygen and other trace element that the meadows would otherwise not get. In the winter the flooding kept the frost out of the ground and the grass would start growing a lot earlier than non flooded fields. This would go on for a few weeks until spring when grass growth had started.
The main carriers tapered in there length with smaller carriers branching off towards the centre of the field again tapering off to nothing. Drainage channels were intersected (as with clasped hands) to carry the water back to the stream at the lower end of the system.
It can be seen in places where the carrier ditches were viaducted over some drainage channels and where when the main railway line was built around 1875, brick culverts were built to allow water to continue its route round to meadows up to half a mile of more from where it left the river.
In the village we have a Millennium Walk that follows the Millian Brook down from where the road fords it, to an area of grass, a picnic area, here the brook is fast flowing and stepping stone have been positioned to allow walkers to cross. Lower down where it is in a deep channel there is also a new footbridge.
Between the ford at the up stream end, and the foot bridge at the down stream end is a four acre meadow that has a small "bedworks" flooding system which the committee is exploring the possibility of bringing it back into use.
The brickwork cheeks of the old sluice have all but gone and would have to be rebuilt, and the main carrier channel that runs round three sides of the meadow have been filled in, but most of the branch carrier channels are still evident as are the drainage channels and the main drainage channel down the centre of the field.
First job to reinstate it would be to establish the level of water needed to flow into the main carrier, when dammed up at the sluice the water will backup up the stream to the ford, as long as the depth of water in the ford is not affected it would be feasible to carry on with reinstating the channels and the sluice.
This would bring back a very old management tool that had been in use for around two hundred years it got neglected when machinery and tractors took over from the horse and cart, so this system has not been activated or utilised in the last seventy five years.
From the Millian Brook around forty acres would have been flooded from three or maybe four sluices, on each one the water returns to the main flow of the brook.
Another system ran from the river Sow, and that covered getting on for a hundred acres with one of its main carries running under a brick culvert under the main West Coast main railway lines. From a vantage point you are able to see the pattern of the channels that had been established before the railways were cut through the countryside.
The Railway Across The peat bog
Its nice to look at very old maps, all faded and dog eared,
See what has change over the years, and what has disappeared,
Most roads and lanes are still the same, so are most the fields,
Village houses have increased, built in corners quite concealed.
Can see where the railway has, cut through field and ditch,
Diagonally they run to it, and a culvert they did pitch,
A hundred and seventy years ago, they dug a line right through,
With bridges over on a bank, and some went under too.
Across the peat bog they had dug, and filled it up with stone,
To this day now the rails sink, the levels they need to hone,
Most of the work was by hand, and horse and cart as well,
Men of steel they must have been, the tales they had to tell.
Countryman.
You must not know too much or be too precise or scientific about birds and trees and flowers and watercraft; a certain free-margin, and even vagueness - ignorance, credulity - helps your enjoyment of these things.
Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)
As kids, one of the ways to get us to go to Sunday school was to put on a trip to a pantomime around Christmas time or a trip to the seaside, usually New Brighton, that's just along the north coast of Wales. This was chosen because it is the nearest coastal destination from where we live.
So every Sunday that we attended Sunday school we had a stamp stuck in a book, and unless we had all the stamps over the six month period, we could not go; the same went for the pantomime.
At the age of five or six or seven nothing was more important than going on a luxurious coach, a twenty nine seater, where the driver sat in the same compartment as the passengers, where we could see how he drove the bus, and watch all the controls he used, watch him change gear, and how the Bedford petrol engine accelerated, how the gear box in third gear had that distinctive whine. We would get off the coach at the halfway mark and marvel at how warm the huge tyres were, and were given time to "water the horses" before climbing aboard again.
At certain points as we neared our destination we were told to see who could see the sea first, then a huge cheer would go up, then out of sight again for a while then cheer again..
It took best part of three hours to make the seventy five miles journey, there was no such thing as motorways back then, and dual carriageways were very few and far between. I remember all the heavy goods vehicles had a 20mph sign on the rear end, and that was their limit when loaded, and often it was these H G V's that hampered the progress of other road users.
Eventually we all got off the coach with our mothers and headed for the beach, those that had been before knew what the routine was, and promptly stripped off and into swimming trunks and off into the edge of the sea.
Mothers of coarse had come well prepared with a huge bag with towels and sandwiches and pop and all spread out a towel to sit on to watch the kids did not get washed away. However this is a shortened version of how the day usually went.
A Day Out to the Sea Side
As kids we went to Sunday school, every week the same,
Had a stamp stuck in a book, for religion is why we came,
Come the summer they booked a coach, an outing to the seaside,
Always was New Brighton, pent up, a good three hours ride.
Started early from the village, pee stop on the way,
Glimpse the sea from way back far, us kids we shout hooray,
Every glimpse from way back far, loud cheer us kids we clapped,
Couldn't wait to hit the beach, in that bus we were trapped.
Stripped off behind a towel, that our Mothers held,
Into trunks and off down the beach, into the sea we yelled,
With bucket n' spades, built a castle, with flag on the top.
Dug a moat all around it, filled with buckets of water we slopped.
Then a strong wave came, filled it faster than it oughta,
Too much now it over flowed, filled it up with sea water,
Build a dam to hold it back, and faster still we dug,
Now we know the power of the sea, to hold it back, silly mugs.
Mother spread a towel out, to have a picnic on the sands,
Sandwiches in door steps, large bites we took with gritty hands,
Cake as well she had made, then washed it down with Corona pop,
So tiring was that long day out, slept all way home without a stop.
Countryman
Surprising as it may be, there were no end of the older generation in the village back then who had never seen the sea, I know my parents had been in their younger days on a coach trip to the sea in what they then called a Charabang, the forerunner to today's coaches, it was open sided and had wooden slatted seats the stretch right across the width of the vehicle and a running board / step along each side to let people get on and off. It had blow up tyres and wooden spoke wheels carrying about twenty five passengers, these were sheltered by a full length canopy that covered the driver as well.
In the 1950's father bought a bit bigger car that would accommodate all six of us, plus luggage, and for a few years we all went on holiday together to the sea side. When us oldest two left school, we were left "home alone" so to speak, to cook for our selves and do our regular jobs on the farm. Each morning mothers regular helper would call for an hour and do our washing up, and upon checking in the pantry she found fly blown bacon, bacon that should have been put in the pantry safe, (safe in this case is a fine wire mesh store cupboard that was designed to keep flies off food but let it be ventilated at the same time, before the refrigerator had been invented). My brother and I had just scraped off the yellow flies eggs and dropped in the fry pan, waste not want not, a good hot frizzle in the pan would soon make it safe to eat.
Mother always looked forward to going on holiday, father was a bit more reluctant, but mother had to admit the she always looked forward even more to getting back again to her own home and her own bed.
The most important trip you may take in life is meeting people halfway.
Henry Boye
The gut had twisted and the small intestine had gone black, and the large intestine was red and distended with air, maybe the gas has started to blow it up as it had been dead over night.
You may have read my blog twins twins twins, well looking back now I totally regret turning them out on a "home" field, it runs along the back of the village houses and also the village pub. As with all country pubs they are having a bad time, and last night the publican threw a last fling party and later as it went dark brought out his boxes of fireworks. I could hear some of them going off in our house, particularly a firework the spits a banger high in the air every four or five seconds a dozen times, and explodes about forty foot up in the air.
This morning (8th June 2009)I went to look round the stock and went into this "home field", all four cows and six calves were laying down not twenty five yard from the pub, all got up except one calf, and that was lying flat out. It was dead, a huge five week old black Hereford cross bull calf, it was clean, no marks on it, no bite marks, no sense of stress to it at all. After speaking to the vet about possible poisoning, with yew or some other garden hedges that are evergreen, or the possibility of whether it has eaten lawn mowings, (I know that will kill horses) we came to the conclusion the best thing was to take it to the hunt kennels and get them to open it up.
It was dually opened up only to find that all the small intestine had gone black, and the large intestine was red and distended with air, maybe the gas has started to blow it up as it had been dead over night. However it looked as though it had got a twisted gut, and the one section was dead, we looked at the stomach contents, it was full of grass, in of the other stomachs was full of milk already looking like a ball of cheese, it had been eating and drinking right up to the point of when it twisted its guts.
It was a 90/100 kg calf, five weeks old, health and growing fast, and it was a twin, in the market it would be in excess of two hundred and fifty pounds. We cannot prove it was the fireworks that triggered it of, but the co incidents was their,
On most of the occasions the publican tells us of any firework display, so we can move stock and ponies away from the adjacent fields, but he let these off on impulse ,(or could it be malicious). We will never know, but I will be very careful not to put very young stock in that field again.
Like I have been told from my very early days of farming "where you've got livestock, you've got dead stock".
Thought at the time that it was too good to be true to have three sets of twins in one year, and be well up on my calf/cow ratio.
But that's life.
She was the last to live in her old cottage, thatch had rotted away,
Half timbered filled in with brick, they were built that way,
Wattle and daub up the chimney breast, above the inglenook,
Cast iron range and chimney crane, hang kettle to boil on hook.
Churchyard Cottages.
The old thatched half timbered cottage that used to stand not fifty paces west of St Chads Church tower, was occupied by Mrs Blakmore. In my earliest memories her husband was still alive, but retired. Her front wicket was opposite the rickyard gateway of Church Farm. This ran straight up alongside the high hedge bank of the Church Farm garden, to her front door. The front door was the only door to her house, with a window to the left of it, letting light into the sitting room.
A small window to the right just round the corner let light into the scullery, where there was an old brown sink mounted on two pillars of bricks. Here the washing was done in her "Dolly tub", and the old "Mangle to squeeze the water out, before hanging it out on the line in the garden. The only other window was above the front door, to the only bedroom she had. The old oak front door, made heavy by layers of paint, had a door latch that you gripped, and pressed the catch with your thumb, to open. On the inside it had a large bolt to secure the door; it did not seem to lock when you went out. A new Yale lock was fitted, and it took the old lady some time to get used to it, in fact she walked out to fetch some coal one morning, and it blew too. She had locked herself out, my father who was working across the road, at Church Farm, fetched me from school, to squeeze me through the scullery window, to unlatch the new Yale lock.
On entering the door, you would notice a thick heavy beam, which stretched from the middle of the inglenook, to the left of the front door. Another equally large beam, which stretched all across the fire place to form the inglenook. Almost the length of this inglenook beam was a mantle piece shelf. This had a strip of material fastened to the front edge like a pelmet, it was dark red velvet, edged with tassels, but in the dimly lit room, it was in fact very smoky light red. But it looked very impressive to my young eyes. Other smaller oak beams stretched the other way to carry the floor boards of the bedroom. It had a cast iron open fire place, which had an oven to one side of it, and a chimney crane that swung the kettle over the fire to boil. In the left far corner, concealed by a door, to keep the draughts out was the stairs that twisted up round a single post directly into the bedroom.
In the bedroom, was a huge chimney breast, constructed of oak frame, filled in with wattle and daub. You certainly would not want to have a chimney fire.
Mrs Blakmore herself was a wiry and tough old lady, always very busy round the house, keeping it spick and span. Always a very alert and keen to talk to visitors, although she got very deaf in later years, and raised her voice to make sure you heard. She wore her hair swept back over her ears to a bun at the back, and only wore her hat if she left the front gate. Every house wife of that era wore a pinafore, loop round the neck, and tied round the waist, usually of a floral pattern.
Among her regular jobs outside, was to chop the sticks, ready for fire lighting the next morning. This was OK until she started to loose her sight, then her daughter came every weekend, to chop a weeks supply for her. Another regular job was to fetch her milk, each evening, from Church Farm, soon after we had started milking. A little bit of pacing up and down, if we were a little late, then we would send her home, [thirty yards] and ten minuets later take it over for her. At times, if the weather was bad, we popped over and got her coal in, and take her milk. Of course there was the standard outside loo, with the little job of maintenance that her daughter did at weekends; this was standard in all cottages.
The right hand half of the house is the cottage I have described, and the small brick and tile loo is bottom right of the picture. The two cottages were tied cottages, for the farm workers in the village, in this case Green Farm. The big tree on the right over hangs the lyche gate. The thatch started to rot away round the chimney and let rain in, and no concerted effort was made to repare it. The old lady died and when the new Council Houses were built in 1948, the house was pulled down. It had the very old "ships timbers" as the main frame in an inverted U, the oak was that black and hard, some was cut up years later with a chain saw, it made sparks come off the blade.
I Remember Old Mrs Blakemore
She was the last to live in her old cottage, thatch had rotted away,
Half timbered filled in with brick, they were built that way,
Wattle and daub up the chimney breast, above the inglenook,
Cast iron range and chimney crane, hang kettle to boil on hook.
A long shelf across the beam, above the fire place,
This was trimmed with a pelmet, with tassels there to grace,
Rich dark velvet it seemed to me, laced with smoke and dust
Ornaments of every size, for a house that's fit to bust.
Behind the only door she'd got, a round table made of oak,
Very old by the polished in stains, made it look bespoke,
One the shape of her door key, where it had been placed for years,
Cast its shadow from the window, it permanently appears.
Her stairs were in the corner, behind a curtain and peg for coats,
Went up steep, almost vertical, round a central post,
Into her bedroom by chimney breast, one rail to stop her fall,
In her only room upstairs it looked, just like a hole in the floor.
Had a scullery to the right, the side of her main room,
Had a brown sink on two brick pillars, small window mid the gloom,
Big old mangle to ring the cloths, dolly tub n' posher as well,
A greasy old drain to take waste, this was how she dwell.
Water was carried from the pump; up on the village green,
A couple of buckets a day, at times some in between,
A tap on the mains came late in life, brass one over the sink,
Now getting blind and losing her sight, not far go for a drink.
Out at the side a little brick closet, under an elder bush,
This was the loo with a wooden seat, old news papers used at a push,
Had to be emptied every week, deep hole in garden latrine,
That soiled over after a month, this was an old routine.
When she passed on, a chapter was gone, house roof fell apart,
It was pulled down to clear the ground, new house then to start,
All mod cons nothing left out, even the drive was paven,
Grass it round, plant some trees, it's now named "Glenhaven."
Countryman
Old houses mended,
Cost little less than new before they're mended.
Colley Cibber (1671 - 1757)
Paul he drives a Fastrac, shooting everywhere,
For to make baled silage, never much time to spare,
Does his best to satisfy, his customers' enemas,
Gets on and gets the job done, rolling up the grass.
Over the last few years I have been writing about local people, in fact I call it my people profile, only need a few facts and likes and dislikes and what they do in life and how they do it and what they look like doing it.
One well known gentleman in our village has his name spread all over the UK six days a week; he has a huge haulage company with other depots in Devon and in Scotland. He is a self made man, whose father was a farmer and started by hauling cattle pig and poultry food in sacks from the docks at Liverpool for the local corn merchant on a four ton (or is it six tons) Morris Commercial dropside lorry, a replica of which he had restored just to remind him of his humble beginning.
So this is how it goes
Stan he was a country lad (Robo)
Stan he was a country lad, who took up driving lorries,
For corn he went to Liverpool, for him no boundaries,
Starting very early, before the M6 was built,
And back again with a full load, always at full tilt.
Hard work it was all in sacks, all handled on and off,
Delivering round lanes to farms, no time for him to scoff,
Got so busy, bought another, set a driver on,
Repeated this so many times, so busy is this mon.
Still a big tall fit man, but growing round the girth,
Proud of what he's achieved, over all the years since birth,
Globe trotting now and then he goes, to sample different beers,
Or that is his excuse, for gut full of dam good cheer.
He's good to his community, and helps out where he can,
More time he's got to chuck it about, has he got a plan,
Looking out where things are needed, always ask his advice,
Failure is not a word he knows, no need to ask him twice.
Stan's he's lost some hair now, blown it off with speed,
A natural tan, a ruddy face, to tan in sun no need,
Has his tinted glasses on, for without them he can't read,
They help him look around now, where he can do good deed.
Countryman
Stand on almost any motorway bridge anywhere in the country, and after a few minuets you will see a Stan Robinson wagon go by.
Another chap who is an accountant lives in the village
Geoff C.
This man he is a countant, and he works all alone,
This he does from his old house, that he calls his home,
Converted from a stable yard, coach house the lot,
Moved there from the Paddocks, we thought he'd lost the plot.
He adds up peoples money, to give the chancellor a share,
And what is left he takes cut, to make a living (bare),
I'm sure he'd have a smile, when he gives you his bill,
"Never mind you will cope", if your business caught a chill,
This man if he were in a line up, might reach five foot eight,
And eight stone when he's wet through, too skinny even for bait,
Slight stoop forward in his stance, with pouring at his keyboard,
His forehead getting higher, but by his family he's adored.
When he stands talking, fists deep down in his (empty) pocket,
Elbows locked straight, as if reaching to his elusive wallet,
His ever smiling eyes peep out, from underneath his lids,
Lids come down to ten past twelve, through counting all his quids.
A caring thoughtful man, like the true Brit he is,
Keeps his chin up high, even though we take the piz
Over all the world he'd help you , do everything he could,
Even if the council say, your house in danger from a flood.
Countryman
This is the chap who does my mowing , baling and wrapping.
Paul he Drives a Fastrac (Mullee)
Paul he drives a Fastrac, shooting everywhere,
For to make baled silage, never much time to spare,
Does his best to satisfy, his customers' enemas,
Gets on and gets the job done, rolling up the grass.
He will come to mow the fields, takes very wide cut,
This to save on fuel, and fewer turns and passes but,
A bigger tractor to drive it, keep it spinning full tilt,
Spread the grass behind, just to let it wilt.
Now all rowed up into a swath, his baler then he hooks,
Picks it up in no time, n' the number of bales he books,
Often brings a man to follow, to wrap the bales real quick,
Ten layers of black plastic, off the wrapper he flick.
Hay he bales and straw as well, keeps him going all day,
Following a combine, follow the rows n' not go astray,
For working late into the night, tiredness gets a hold,
Hard at work all hours is he, for his pot of gold.
Recommend this man to come, keeps in touch by phone,
Tells you when he'll be there, for this he is well known,
Knows how long a job will take, travelling time as well,
If he has a holdup, soon gives you a bell.
A big tall bloke with a smile, likes to have a chat,
But not for long work to do, never wares a hat,
Prefers you to climb aboard, ride round while he works,
That way it breaks up his day, no one can say he shirks.
Mullee's the bloke, Mullee's the name, Mullee's the one to call,
Goes everywhere for everyone, as out of bed he crawls,
Bale the grass, bale the hay, bale the straw and all,
"Come and bale me grass right NOW", told to ask for PAUL.
Countryman
Take a rest, a field that has been rested gives a bontifull crop
Ovin (43BC - 17AD)
By this time the Vets examination table was looking like an operating table, (with blood and all vets blood).
Holly was a slim black cat that was discovered in the old cowsheds as a three quarter grown kitten. I opened the building door one morning and surprised her, she almost ran round the walls like a wall of death rider. Later we put some food in the shed and continued all that week. Eventually she started stepping forward while the food was being put down, then weeks later she came across the yard to the back door. Holly had been dumped in our yard, and an identical one dumped at the Aston cottages on the same night, no wonder she was as wild and nervous as she was. Over the twelve years we had her, she was prone to cat flue, and only once took her down to the vets. The vet picked her out of the old fishing basket by the scruff and put her feet on the table, in the other hand he had his thermometer to put under her tail. I held out her tail, but she did not appreciate the indignity of where the thermometer went. She sunk all her claws into the vets hand, along with loud wailing and spitting, the vet went through the pain barrier and he asked Matt to lift her claws one paw at a time and hold them off his hand. By this time the examination table was looking like an operating table, (with blood and all vets blood). Eventually the temperature was ascertained and without loosing his grip, she was returned to the fishing basket, it took a good ninety seconds from beginning to end. (Frantic is how you would describe the consultation). Holly was never taken there again and the appropriate prescription was always prescribed over the phone and collected. Worming was always another difficult act to carry out, particularly with tablets, they were blown down her throat, thrown down her throat, crushed in the food , dissolved in the milk, all to no avail. After a few years we came across a liquid wormer that was squirted into the mouth with something like an eye dropper, this stuck in her mouth and always very successful. In her middle age Holly got very dominating over the dogs, as the dogs got older they respected her space, but learning to respect her was very painful. Often one quick swipe would produce a crop of little holes on the dog's nose with a droplet of blood standing up on each claw mark, this they did not forget too often.
William was an Airedale dog belonging to Matt, we bought him as a pup and when he was about six months old, suddenly was sick and off colour in a big way. On close examination, there was what looked like a worm protruding from his rear. On closer examination, and a tug we realised it was a piece of thread, but it pulled so far then stopped with a yelp of pain from William.
Because his condition had detieriated so rapidly we rushed him off down to the vet to be x-rayed, this told us that there was a needle on the end of that thread. As an inquisitive pup he must have found the thread and started to swallow it and the needle followed it down, until it got to the last few bends in the intestine and got wedge crossways in the bowel. Here it punctured his bowel wall and damaged his anal gland as well. After his op he recovered well but later in his life his anal gland gave him a lot of trouble.
As a full grown pup of ten to twelve months, we started to train him to catch rats, starting with mice under some small bales of straw. He was very alert and keen, once he knew what to look for, but he had a problem of spitting them out once he had chewed them. In fact he swallowed them, and then went looking for the next until he came across his first rat, he picked the rat up gently, and the rat bit him on the lip and hung on. This made him yelp at first then he got serious, then he got mad before the rat let go, there after every rat was keenly sort and quickly dispatched in a savage twist and shake of his head.
William was a very kind dog with people and other dogs, but because of his size, he was a bit intimidating to people who did not know otherwise. Our yard gate was always open, and he never bothered to clear off, but on this one occasion he went across the road to greet a little dog out being walked by its owner. It was one of those little dogs that had a bow tied on top of its head, and looked ponsy, and William gave it a sniff just in front of its startled owner, and promptly lifted his leg and pee'd all over it. The saturated little dog was lifted swiftly up by the owner, only to get dog pee all over her best coat as well. We saw what happened from the distance but it all happened so quickly it was over and William back in our yard instantly, but the neighbour never spoke to us again for ages, and she could not get over the disgust at what had happened to her little darling.
It was the same with boots or wellingtons left outside our back door, William could pee in the top of a wellington boot and you would never know, until your foot was well pushed down in and on, and it was not just a dribble he seemed always to be generous with what he left. It only happened to me only once and thereafter lay down the wellies as soon as taken off. He was not fussy, it happened to the vet who was changing out of his wellies by his car and splash he had got him, and no end of visitors to the house all had to be warned of the danger, shoes boots sandals any footwear that he could find got scent marked, a way I suppose of marking his territory.
Throughout his life William was another dog to appreciate our principle carer's care, although he was trickle fed and wormed regularly all his life, he never got into a porky state. When he wanted to get your attention he would sit in front of you and clack and chatter his teeth and laugh in his way, wagging his one third of a tail, a most happy dog.
After we lost William we had another Airedale called Sophie, she was a show dog bred reject, apparently slightly to big for the show ring and for breeding. We bought her at about eighteen months old, not socialised in any way, and never been off a lead in her life, just lived in the kennels.
When we got her home and let her loose on the front big lawn, she trotted round picking her front feet up like a hackney horse, almost trotting blind and in a daze. It took weeks of acclimatisation to get her to settle down and be used to being free.
Matt built her a run outside of her kennel, were not too keen on dogs tethered on a chain, so when she was in the run and kennel she relaxed back to what she had been brought up to.
A lot of people got to feel the teeth of Sophie, she was totally unreliable with anyone outside of the immediate family. The vet came to give her a jab, a jab that dogs have to have annually, we called her to us as she was running about the yard, I held her head and one hand tightly round her jaw, and the vet pinched up the skin in the scruff of her neck and the job was done in seconds. Sophie trotted away in disgust, and took a wide circle round vehicles and tractors then ran up behind the vet at the boot of his car, with a quick sharp nip she got her own back on him and drew blood from his elbow, as if to get revenge on him.
On another occasion she caught a fuel tanker driver as he stepped backwards down from his vehicle, biting him on the back of his leg above the knee. We were very apologetic and took him into the shed and he dropped his trousers to reveal four fang puncture marks right where he sat on in his seat. He laughed it off at the time, but later we found out he had driven directly back to the depot, and was taken to hospital for a jab against lock jaw. There were not many people who had not had a narrow escape from her teeth, and it got that she was only let free around the yard , with the yard gate shut, when one of us were working about the yard and buildings.
We were unfortunate to have to have her put down eventually, as she had ventured onto the road and nipped an old ladies arm, her family were very adamant that they would report the incident if we did not have her destroyed. So after a happy home life Sophie never really got socialised to other people, and never dropped the habit of biting people.
While we did still have Sophie we acquired a Jack Russell called Milly she was around a year old, to read her story in an earlier blog. press the tags Dogs, Pets. "Animals in our lives"
Not had time to put together the story about the enormous cat Samantha that we recently aquired, but this will give you an idea of what she was like. I will put it in a future blog.
We've Got a Big Black Stray Cat
We've got a big black stray cat, with a belly fit to bust,
Thought she's having kittens, within days it was a must,
Been that way for five months now, that's the way she's built,
Curled up in a nest of hay, almost like a quilt.
Very wary when approached, must be catching plenty mice,
It was August when we saw her; she was looking very nice,
Used to us working round her, let her sleep and have a rest,
Doing a good job round the farmyard, controlling all the pests.
As it got cold found cardboard box, keep the draught at bay,
After a week or more we moved the box, closer to our way,
Till the box was in the porch, she spent hours curled up in their,
Fed her a few titbits from a dish, so easy did she scare.
We put a kennel instead of box, more comfort for the cat,
Polystyrene in the bottom, a total insulation matt,
A fabric igloo then insert, for comfort beyond her dreams,
Spent hours and hours asleep in there, doing nothing so it seems
A bet was on that this fat cat, by Christmas in the house,
And sure enough when it got cold, into back door forget the mouse,
Did not like door the being shut, looked for a quick way out,
So nervous in a new surrounding looked to see who's about.
Gradually she gained trust in us, and found the Rayburn warm,
Made a nest off the floor, by chimney breast, new cover adorn,
Settled in well for Christmas, start of a new routine,
Curled up warm day and night, a couple of breaks in between.
Lazy comes to mind right now, as all her food is in a dish,
Only got to stand up, and it's all there for when she wish,
So now we've got to name her, this enormous ‘two ton' cat,
Samantha what we call her, but for short it's Sam, (it's short and fat).
Countryman
Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.
Roger Caras
Driving very cautious, cannot see what's round the bend,
Reactions slowing up now, braking distance I extend,
Reversing on the mirrors, the distance hard to judge,
Backing up to a big old gate post, no wonder it wunner budge.
( and that's just the car)
As you may have heard on the national news, Stafford Hospital has come in for a slating, too many "Chiefs" and not enough "Indians", with the staff who do the actual work getting demoralised. However we have had a close inspection of the hospital from "inside", with my closest member of my family, very reluctantly being admitted under a 999 blue light situation. In other words she had no option.( for nine days)
We found the place spotless; I have no doubt that with all this bad publicity over its cleanliness or other wise, its finally making huge efforts to gain back a reputation of being clean. The only complaint from the patient, when she was well enough to know what was going on, was one of the nurses who when inserting a needle in the back of her hand for a drip, seemed to press and push all the harder until she found the vein. ( a clear need for retraining) They all have their names on, and there is a box to register suggestion/complaints such as that, and I would think they will be reading every note with great care to improve there image. My misses is a tough little bird, who bites her lip and smiles, and refuses to complain as the majority of her care was most excellent.
We never know when any one of us will need the local hospital, but ours now must be one of the cleanest in the country, I heard it said that the staffing levels have got to be brought up be it doctors , nurses, and surgeons.
Getting old is not an option, it creeps up on you, and its not until you are pulled up sharply by your ---------- that you realise your age. Farming is now getting way in front of my thinking and knowledge, suddenly you cannot run like you could even last year, and the paper work in the office and all the records and forms to fill in, and the Single Farm Payment. I have someone professional to do that for me, one mistake and you're thrown to the bottom of the pile.
I still love my job, (and now learned how to use the computer)
Passed Another Mile Stone (or should it be spelt with an i )
I have passed another mile stone, each year it is the same,
Birthday's come and birthdays go, the excitement's getting tame,
Not so quick at doing things and hair it's gone all grey,
After lunch we have a nap, and bed times half past eight.
Walking's steady, runnings out, pace myself a bit,
Now I have a shooting stick, on which I often sit,
Got to eat lot less now, the weight it going up,
I'd be sent to market now, if I were a fat old tup.
Eye sight not too bad but, cannot read without some aid,
Glasses need up dating now, the eyes they have decayed,
Should have longer arms to read, new glasses conquer that,
They hit you in the pocket hard, on the old ones I have sat.
Driving very cautious, cannot see what's round the bend,
Reactions slowing up now, braking distance I extend,
Reversing on the mirrors, the distance hard to judge,
Backing up to a big old gate post , no wonder it wunner budge.
I thank my lucky stars that, I'm being looked after very well,
Still here on this old planet, writing down my tale to tell,
Recording what I've done in life, and all the folks we met,
Come hail or rain or sunshine, but we still get bloody wet.
Countryman
About the only thing that comes to us without effort is old age.
Gloria Pitzer in Readers Digest 1979
At summer's end it's parted from, its mother needs a rest,
Life of growing, getting fat, for meat, correct you've guessed.
It has been well over twenty years since we had twin calves born on the place, and could easy be ten years before that when we had twin pedigree charolais bulls born. One we kept as our stock bull the other was sold for service, so its two sets of twins in thirty years.
This year so far out of seventeen cows calved; we have had three sets of twins, five bull calves and one heifer calf which I have no doubt will be a freemartin (non-breeder), so our calving ratio is well over the hundred percent.
On the down side we have lost two calves which is quite unusual for us, they calve out in the field, and in both cases the cow failed to rise at the crucial moment and the afterbirth still over the calf's nose it suffocated.
The first cow that had twins was the oldest cow and they had pulled her down over the last few months, until she resembles a "Hat Rack". Her calves were lively and jumping about and she is a good mother but I had doubts about her milk volume to rear two calves. So one calf was put across onto one that had lost hers, after a few days he had well latched on and they had bonded well together. The other cow that had no calf I bought a calf off a neighbour, the calf was keen but the cow was angry, and she had to be put in the crush to make her stand still, and after about a week I felt that she may let it suck out in the field where she would obviously be more relaxed, and sure enough today I saw it suckling.
The two cows looking after twins, we put into a separate field where there is a good depth of grass, if left with the main group very young calves tend to get lost when mother walks off with one and has no inclination to go looking for another. They can stay separate until they are about a month old, then we can merge them back with the main group.
Going back to the Freemartins, when I milked cows we were short of heifer calves one year, so I contacted a calf dealer for him to purchase for me twelve Friesian heifer calves, this he did and over the next week they were delivered and paid for.
At two years old they were put to the bull and being a bit suspicious about them being in calf, I had them P.D.ed , the first one the vet said this one won't breed it's a Freemartin, the second the same and out of the twelve heifer only two were in calf. Now dairy men usually keep their heifers calves as replacement but if they had a heifer calf twin to a bull it would be shifted and put in the market, knowing it would not breed.
The calf dealer bought the heifer calves at four different markets that week (all over the Midlands), to fill his order to me. I since learned from an old experienced calf dealer how to spot a Freemartin in the calf ring, and look for certain characteristics, its almost as difficult as sexing day old chickens. But all this happened thirty five years ago, and I must have been a "bit wet behind the ears" then.
But you live and learn.
A Calf New Born
Its nice to go into the field, and find a calf new born,
They come along at any time, day or night or early morn,
Pains of birth alert the cow, find a nice quiet spot to lay,
Pushing hard till it appears, it's over in a day.
Within an hour it's licked and polished, up and had some milk,
Then off to find a place to hide, its coat as smooth as silk,
A bog of nettles, stalky grass, or just some rushes in a tuft
Keep its head down have a sleep, predators its out bluffed.
With plenty milk and summer sun, it plays and grows as well,
Mother gets fed up with it, but knows it's hers by smell,
At summer's end it's parted from, its mother needs a rest,
Life of growing, getting fat, for meat, correct you've guessed.
Countryman
The leaves fall, the wind blows, and farm and country slowly changes from summer cottons into its winter wools.
Henry Beston.
Worms in the garden, and worms in the fields,
Eat all the rotted vegetation, improve all the yields,
Drawn down into the earth, a worm hole there to leave,
Pushing up the worm casts, a little pile of soil is heaved.
Earth Worms
Part of the ecology of the earth and soil that it is made up of is occupied by earth worms. These are only seen when ploughing or digging, this is when you see hundreds of birds following the plough. Worms eat through and draw down compost and dead vegetation into the ground often leaving the familiar worm casts. This gives a natural drainage and aeration to the surface of the land.
Some years ago as a side line to my farming, we had a wormery, breeding and rearing earth worms, for fishermen, and supplying them to gardener's to be put into garden compost bins. It was very interesting in that, you could use the natural instincts of the earth worm, in order to "harvest" them or separate them from their eggs.
Initially we bought five thousand worms as a starter pack, and introduced them fifty at a time into a peat / rotted horse muck mixture in plastic bins or boxes measuring 12 x 18 inches by 12 inches deep ( for metric modern folk its, 30 x 45 mm and 30 deep) this was then covered with a bit of old carpet to keep the whole lot moist. They were stacking boxes as used in offices and store houses, and the worms could be stacked three high on trestle tables up out of the draught and kept at a temperature of no less than 60F. Each week they were checked for moisture to see the compost was not drying out,
And after six weeks the fifty worms had "eaten" the rotted horse muck and the litter had to be renewed. Each box was tipped out onto a table, any worms exposed soon burrowed deep back into the pile, the litter on the outside of the cone was gradually scraped away driving the worms into the centre.
Repeating this a few times within a few minuets you are left with a pile of just clean worms all trying to get under each other away from light, forgot to say you need a bright light on above the table while doing this job as it makes them move even faster. The piles of fifty worms are put back into their boxes with new peat and rotted muck and the carpet replaced.
The spent litter, on looking carefully is full of eggs, this is put into a box double the size of that they came out of, along with an equal proportion of new peat/muck mixture, a piece of carpet placed on top and keep an eye on the moisture of the boxes over the next month or so. It's quite exciting to find your fist hatchlings so small you can hardly see them. After a few more weeks the young worms can be tipped out with there own litter into a main muck ruck, or compost heap if that's what you like to call it. This again must be covered with a large carpet, or something similar, and every week taken off and add another layer of rotted muck. You can hose pipe spray on top of the carpet if it's too dry, and the young worms will eat their way up from the compost below up into the muck. After ten or twelve weeks the worms will be approaching adult size, almost ready to breed themselves.
There are a number of ways of catching these worms when they are ready for sale, you can spread a fine mesh over the litter before you spread the next lay of muck, only a very thin layer, and the mesh needs to be big enough for the worms to get through. Then replace the carpet and moisten in the usual way, after a few hours or perhaps the following morning most of the worms are in that top layer above the mesh. Remove the carpet, and rollup the mesh and some litter and nearly all the worms from that area, and tip them onto a table beneath a bright light, they will endeavour to get to the centre of the pile and what bit of litter you have on the table can be gently scraped off then.
For smaller scale harvest you can used a fine garden riddle with a bit of new rotted muck and place it on the surface under the carpet, you get the same results as described above.
If your main rearing bed is outside, the biggest problem will be badger's, rats and moles, they must be excluded, as if they once find your worm population, they will insist on returning every night. The beds can be of sleeper on edge round the sides as in a raised bed for gardening, instead if old carpet nowadays the top can be covered with bubble wrap and secured down round the edges.
Once the fishermen and gardeners know where you are and what you've got they can be packed in fifties in a handful of new peat in small plastic boxes, with air holes in the lid. They can be posted all over the country this way, (so long as you've got your money in your pocket first). The largest consignment was for a months fishing trip to Ireland for two fishermen, who called and picked them up on the way.
To get an idea of what to charge you have only to go to one or two fishing tackle shops and enquire as to what they charges for worms.
The spent worm compost is ideal for selling to gardener and nursery men as it is completely weed free and stone free, and most of it derived from what goes through the horses gut, then through the worms gut, when starting a new bed use about a foot deep of the old compost/litter as that is where they reside and gradually eat their way up into new rotted muck. Very little or no peat is used once they have establish their own "living" litter; peat is mainly used for the breeding boxes mixed half and half with muck.
Worms in the garden
Worms in the garden, and worms in the fields,
Eat all the rotted vegetation, improve all the yields,
Drawn down into the earth, a worm hole there to leave,
Pushing up the worm casts, a little pile of soil is heaved.
Repeated over a garden, or over acres in the grass,
Drawing down the cow pats, does it quietly without harass,
Moving in its little way, tons and tons of soil,
Millions of them working hard, their little bit of toil.
Countryman
To cherish what remains of the earth and to foster its renewal is our only hope of survival.
Wendell Berry.
Moles
It's that time of year again when the moles start digging and pushing up soil in their inimitable way. Nearly always on the best bit of lawn, following in the hedge bottom then branching out under the grass in the most unpredictable directions. In the fields they work the same pushing soil up into mowing grass which inevitable get into the mown sward to contaminate the silage heap.
A bit later in the season when tunnels have got well established, you can see where the ground goes very hard, where cattle funnel towards a gateway or vehicles doing the same compacting the soil, they will have dug a tunnel across that way and its too hard to dig another. Father always said this will be like a trunk route where all the moles in that field will pass through at some time or the other, making it the prime place to set your mole traps.You are able to re-set the trap in the same place until all are caught.
These Little Creatures Burrow
These little creatures burrow, and dig endlessly all day,
In total darkness all their lives, don't have time to play,
Every here and there they push, mound of soil up top,
In the most annoying places, n' nout to make them stop.
Their coat is fine and silky, and it brushes either way,
Because in tiny tunnels, shunt backward with no delay,
In good rich soil finding earth worms, catch them unaware,
To feed his busy little body, with no one will he share.
His feet are as little spades, to dig a longer tunnel,
And with his back feet shove the soil, up a little funnel,
This is when you see soil move, pushed up from below,
A mole is what I'm looking for, just to say hello.
Countryman
At one time we had a family of moles working there way across a low area of meadow ground, running into a substantial depth of peat. Every now and then we get a summer flood like we did last year, just after we had got all the silage bales away.
This one particular year we were in the middle of actually baling with the small conventional baler, and left the baler on the meadows. Over night there was a substantial down pour, and the ditches and the brook that they run into are well weeded up and it impedes the flow.
As you see from this pictue the ditch is well weeded up and the cattle tend to reach down into the channel for that tasty leaf of grass or plant just out of reach, but it is decieving an inch or so of clear water covers abot fifteen foot of peat. The crust of turf on the meadow bends with the weight of tractors and such like, then spring back up as you pass, and when the cattle come running up to you the whole area shakes like a lelly
So it did not take much for the meadow to flood, much to the annoyance of the moles. I went to retrieve the baler in about six inches of water, and to my amazement saw a couple of moles swimming for dear life in the wrong direction. Of coarse it was much too dangerous for me to follow them, as the area is dissected by deep drainage channels, the flood levelled the meadows off, so you could not see where they are.
This picture is taken from a bank on the edge of the peat, our meadows are the between the two woods, they have been mown mid July and aftermath is being grazed, the rough grass strips are the drainage channels which are weeded out each year in September by the river board for which we pay a drainage rate.
We have called cattle off those fields in flood from time to time, the older ones seem to sense where to go, but the followers, that years spring born calves soon find out how to swim, and swim towards the cows.
Our cows have all been born on the place and know not to get in the peaty ditches, learning as calves. Once one has been in the ditch, they never go in again, and remember that all their lives.
The calves can most often get out themselves, being agile and not too heavy, the evidence of which is a black tide mark up to a few inches from the top of the shoulders, although they must be counted twice a day and the ones that are stuck got out immediately.
It makes me wince when you see the firemen have been called out to get a cow out of a peaty ditch, a whole crew of men or perhaps two crews trying to get a fire hose under the belly of the animal. On the odd occasion when I have bought in a cow or in calf heifer, and they got stuck, I take an old cow chain and a length of rope and the fore end loader.
I put the chain round the cow's neck, attach the rope to it under the cows chin, and then fasten to the loader. Lift gently but firmly, and start moving back, the cow's neck looks long at this point, but don't worry it will hold the whole weight of her body. Once out they stand up in a daze, it gives you time to detach the chain and rope. The whole operation, one man and tractor, ten minutes at tops. Never lost one using this method, or pulled its neck out, but a horse I am told by the old men of the village would soon get a broken neck.
I was told that before the days of tractors the way was to take the old iron wheeled muck cart, the ones with five foot wooden wheels, back it up to the ditch and remove the horse from the shafts.
Lift the shafts skywards until the rear of the cart is in the grass. Rope or chain round the cows neck, or in them days round the horns, and threaded up over the front of the cart and tied to the shafts. I know there was always more men about back in them days, so about four men were able with a bit of luck pull the shafts down to the ground, and a man on each wheel wheeled the cart forward thus extracting the said cow,( not dead) cow.
When we first had a Fordson tractor and the next four tractor generations of tractor as well, they had no cabs and only later did we have one with a loader fitted. The removal of a cow from the peat went like this. Reverse up to the ditch, hitch onto the cow as described before, and feed the rope over the top of one rear tyre and tie it off down the far side. It is important to be dead in line for this, and someone with a hand on the rope easily guides it over the centre of the tread, and gently drive forwards. The whole reason for this lifting as opposed to dragging, is that a cow dragged will put her from legs out straight in front to pull against the rope and push her front legs under the turf bank into the soft peat and anchor there, that would be a good time to pull her neck out. So lift and pull is the name of the game, this is made a lot easier with the modern four wheel drive loaders and tractors.
I think I could give tuition to the likes of the fire men, but as so often happens, their chief know best how to make it into a whole days work for eight or ten men and couple of appliances and maul the animal half to death, creating vet bills on top as well. You see the result of there work on the evening news or in the weekend papers, most of which could be avoided.
Not being critical, its just practical experience, its costly if you get it wrong, and as a farmer, if it hits you in the pocket, it is remembered for ever.
If there comes a little thaw,
Still the air is chill and raw,
Here and there a patch of snow,
Dirtier than the ground below,
Dribble down a marshy flood,
Ankle deep you stick in mud,
In the meadow while you sing,
"This is spring".
Christopher Pearce Cranch A Spring Growl
After around three or four minuets cutting, the bulls horn eventually dropped off, a nice clean cut but we had three spurts of blood,
Life does not get any easier, what with the budget and the economy, and nearer to home we had two cows lost the calves at birth, looks like the cow lay still, with the veil over the calf's nose and suffocated it. Also to make up the numbers a cow had twins, of coarse it had to be the oldest and thinnest cow, the one to be run baron this time and culled. So we are in the throws of settling one of the twins onto one of these cows, so far she is taking to it well. The second cow to loose her calf I have bought in a calf off a neighbour, but she is an angry cow, and she has a pair of sharp horns and knows how to use them on her companion (the first cow to loose her calf). We have often said that the horns aught to come off, but as a suckler cow living out all the year round there was no need to have the operation.
In order that we can hold her long enough and still enough for the new calf to suckle, we have borrowed a neighbours crush, it has side panels that open to let the calf suck, ours has solid sides. Being such a strong crush, and seeing as how she had drawn blood and gashed her companion quite viciously, we decided that the horns can come off NOW.
Injection to numb the base of the horn, count to a hundred and one slowly, and cut them off promptly with a wire. So quick and efficiently with hardly any blood, we looked who else qualified to have the same opp. And there he was , the bull, standing quietly by the gate, opened it and he walked through, and voluntarily walked as far as he could down the race and got stuck in the first half of the crush with his horns wedged firmly and diagonally in the hinges of the side panels top and bottom. With halter now on his nose and round his horns he was persuaded to wriggle up as far as the yoke, got one horn stuck firmly in the mechanism and could not budge him for a full quarter hour. The only way to release him was to cut three inches off the tip of the jammed horn with the wire, this we did as he stood calmly watching through one eye. The instant it cut through he stepped forward and he was duly in the yoke.
He is a Hereford bull that I bought last year and is about three years old, it is his first calves that are dropping now. We then put a second halter on to try to stop his throwing his head about and proceeded to injected round the base of his horns with Lignocane to freeze the area. As you can imagine he was not too keen on that, and then we checked over the cutting wire and its handles on each end, and the lad helping me flexed his muscles as an athlete would and the tension grew. Wire went round the first horn just up from the flesh, and started the sawing, it gradually sank in out of sight, a little dust or smoke from the heat was soon stopped as we hit first blood. It had the function of lubricating the wire, and the cutting continued. After around three or four minuets cutting, the horn eventually dropped off, a nice clean cut but we had three spurts of blood, the two smaller ones were dabbed with a hot iron but the main flow the iron would not stem. This was when we fell back onto what the vet did some years ago in the same situation, we plugged it with a match stick. The second horn we cut the same but the bull was getting a bit annoyed and throwing his head about breaking one halter and the snatch against the wire we broke the end off the wire. I think my mate was glad of a pause and a breather while the end was threaded back on the wire. On again with the blood lubrication helping the cutting, until the second dropped to the ground.
By this time the first match stick had been knocked out and four spurts of blood fountained up, however like a good boy scout I had got two hundred and fifty more matches in me pocket. With a bit of hot iron and by now three matches sticking out of each horn wound the flow was well under control. What blood he did loose would easy fit on a shovel and he had got plenty more to keep him going. Never again will he get his head jammed in the race and crush or in the feeder in the winter, he was released back into the field looking a little dazed and bewildered, and walked off to find the cows.
The following morning the bull had congealed blood all down each side of his head made to look all the worse by the fact that he has or had a white head. Most Hereford cattle have horns that curl gentle forward but this chap his horns went out a good three feet wide, he never used them other than rub his head in a sand hedge bank, and he does not seem to be any worse for ware after his operation.
We endeavour to dehorn the cattle as calves, a lot easier to handle at that age, but when a calf kicks it can certainly whip its legs out fast.
I Remember Father's Cattle
In the mid 1950's vets were recommending worming young stock with a new product called phenothiazine.This was a powder and had to be mixed with water and a pint or so was pour down their throats.(drenched)
I remember father counting, cattle each and every day,
He counts and looks at every one, to see they're all OK,
Now one day he sees's one cough, and then it was another.
If we don't do something quickly, we'll be in a bit of bother.
So off down he goes to get, some wormer in a rush,
And back he comes and reads the label, says get them in a crush,
No crush have we, but four strong lads, we'll get them in a stable,
Mix water and green powder in a bucket, put it on the table.
Four long neck bottles we did find, for dosing all the cattle
Phenothiozine, it's called, and keep it stirred or it will settle,
The pop had gone as we made sure; we loved the fizzy taste,
One pint and half was dose that's needed, over dose was waste.
Pint ladle and a funnel now, into the bottled it was measured,
Us lads went in among the stock, as tight a they could be,
The bottles we did pass to one, who had ones chin held high,
Uptip the med-sin to back of throat, do not look down or ni.
The cow that coughs, coughs both ends, and chuck it back they try,
Its just a waste as we were told, but hits you in the eye,
Soon learn to leave it quickly, as soon as we could shift,
As dosing cattle get there own back, now who's being thrift.
We often wondered why we lads, had grown so big and strong,
When other lads around us, were only lean and long,
Put it down to fresh air, and read farmers weekly magazine,
But all the time it wasn't, twas Phenothiazine.
Countryman
The friendly cow all red and white,I love with all my heart,
She give me cream with all her might,to eat with apple tart.
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)
The fields both large and small have names, you wouldn't dream exist,
Some relate to owner past, and others the type of land persists,
Hanging Bank is most sinister name, it's a cold north facing bank,
More research into this is what's needed, but all we've drawn is a blank.
It seem most important to British people that their Boundaries are marked by a fence or ditch and hedgerow or both. It is also important to know who's responsible for its maintenance and repair. On farms it is your own responsibility to keep your own cattle contained within your boundary. Having said that, in the early days you marked your boundary by digging a ditch along your side of the line, and throwing the spoil back into your own side, then plant a hedge on top of it. In other words it's your boundary if the ditch is the other side of the hedge or fence. Internal ditches were often dug and a hedge planted, to pick up springs and tile drains that crossed the farm, and clear storm water to prevent shallow pools forming, which would kill the grass after a few week submerged.
Very old hedgerows are often made up of many species, ranging from Hawthorn and Blackthorn to Brier and Elder, the latter two being not very desirable, as livestock tend to eat through them. Unless the hedges are trimmed each year they soon become open in the bottom, and very loose in the top. Hawthorn and Holly make a good tight knit defence against cattle, but can soon become gappy when Elder which is a quick grower becomes dominant. Then when livestock are turned into the field, they eat it.
In one of our hedges, a botanist counted over twenty different species of hedgerow plant in a hundred yard stretch. This is a hedge that had evolved over the years in a grazing pasture, where cattle have made their contribution to pruning. Only the less palatable species dominated and maintained quite a good hedge.
Often the best trees to grow from saplings are the ones that are growing in the hedge bottom, when they appear out of the top of the hedge they can just be cut round and simply left to grow. No problem of transplanting or guarding they grow on to make splendid trees with no setbacks.
Hedgerows are important to birds, for nesting and for berries for winter feeding, and the hedge bottom, is shelter for a wide range of small mammals.
The ideal hedge, I was told, over fifty years ago, should be A shaped, and when in full leaf sheads rain like a thatched roof. This gives maximum shelter to its inhabitants, and a wide and dry undisturbed hedge bottom, , and a build-up of dry leaf mould, for hibernating wildlife like Hedgehogs and Toads. Rabbits like to burrow under hedges, as very often the soil is relatively loose and not too compacted, the roots of the hedge also hold the burrow open, and no danger of collapse. Also growing on top of a small hedge bank, it is well drained and dry. Badgers often dig in old rabbit warrens, particularly if they hit a good seam of sand that is just below a hard gravely layer. Here they can dig rapidly forming great mounds of sand that could turn a tractor over, if you're not concentrating.
Field mice and voles find shelter in the hedge banks, running among the tussocks of grass. At harvest time they venture further out in the field margins foraging for shed grain, where they fall pray to the kestrels and buzzards. When they spot a mouse, they hover then dive, carrying them off in their talons, owls too like this type of habitat.
On our estate fifty years ago, the woodman when needed would cut down an oak tree. The main trunk would be cut into a 5ft 6in length and 10ft length and multiples of that to make best use of the tree trunk. These large sections of tree trunk were then cleft (split) with wedges and a sledge hammer to make fencing posts and the longer ones into rails. This practice is never used nowadays, but cleft timber was always better and stronger than sawn timber. This was because split timber always followed the grain of the wood, and sawn timber inevitably crossed the grain somewhere along its length and could break in that place. There are still examples of cleft posts and rails in parts of the estate but they are getting few and far between.
In the Moor Cover wood there always used to be a section in the lower part of the wood that was coppiced. The stools that had been harvested two or three years before were again ready to be cut. The most common use was for hedge laying stakes, and the whippy tops used to bind the top of the laid hedge. When completed this binding would look like the top edge of a basket, holding the light stakes and laid hedge stiff, durable and stock proof. Another use of the lighter stakes was for thatching pegs, these needed to be about 2ft long the thicker ones would be cleft into two, they would then be sharpened at one end to make it easier to push into the stack of hay or corn. The brash left after coppicing found it way into many of the village gardens as pea and bean sticks, and no opportunity was lost on finding a new seven or eight foot cloths line prop with a natural forked top.
Field Names of Seighford
Out in Britons countryside, looks like a patchwork quilt,
Of roads and lanes and field tracks, evolved and some were built,
They lead from towns and villages, and farms, map nailed on beam,
Each field a hedge and ditch and gate, watered by pond or stream.
The fields both large and small have names, you wouldn't dream exist,
Some relate to owner past, and others the type of land persists,
Red Rheine's is one of these mean fields, when ploughed reveals red clay,
Unless the frost into it gets, no seed bed though you work all day.
Best known one I've no doubt, behind Yews farm is Cumbers,
Ten houses built along the village, take that name and numbers,
Down by the ford is Mill Bank, four acre few trees by the brook,
The Hazel Graze another great name, nut bushes to make a crook.
Fosters by the railway line, named after a soul long gone,
And Pingles also down the Moor Lane, that defiantly is a mystery one,
Noons Birch is the most beautiful name, one that congers' you mind,
Public Field it was part of the land , run to the pub up back and behind.
Hoble End is another nice name, where two cottages stood in the fields,
No track did they only footpath, lonely place only a well and concealed,
Moss Common a field where the ditch, springs in the middle to pick up,
It is important that they are there, to water the ewes and the tup.
Ash Pits are three fields in a row, the Big the Middle and Little,
Ash trees are the obvious reason, and only one pit in the lot,
Hanging Bank is most sinister name, it's a cold north facing bank,
More research into this is what's needed, but all we've drawn is a blank
Lanes to the fields also have names, Moor Lane runs way from the ford,
Connecting with that is Love Lane, a grassy rut track half way Bridgeford,
The Oldfords Lane goes up to the farm, to Coton not a short cut by car,
And Smithy Lane runs way through houses, the shortest of all by far.
Moss Lane is one that runs eastwards, cow lane that it is can be seen,
Grass up the middle and is long, see cattle grazing fields so keen,
It has path that runs up it, and gates shut on each end,
The path is quite long; it comes out near Doxey on bend.
Countryman
See also my recent blog Post and Rails of Oak. Tag "Fencing"
If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant, if we did not sometimes taste adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome.
Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672).
The roses get the green fly, the taters get the blight
The cabbage get the caterpillars, what a blooming sight,
Apples there are plenty, grub hole in every one,
Birds have pecked the plums, the rot it has begun.
A gardening Blog
Many potential gardeners who work, and travel some distance to and from work, just physically do not have much time to do what they would like to do in the garden. Then there is the people who just cannot stand gardening, like a neighbour we had in the village, (the wheelwright), his wife loved her garden, and he was committed to mowing the lawns front and back, and always commented to who ever would listen, that his garden should be tarmac end to end, side to side, then each spring he could just sweep it off and paint it green. This was about the time they were building the new M6 motorway, and different "cowboy" contractors were "peddling" tarmac at night and weekends, to do the drive or garden paths, at a rate never to beaten, cash only, right into their back pockets. However his wife would not here of it, and they kept to lawns and boarders on the front and a veg. plot and some lawn at the back of the house.
This is how I sum up gardening
Gardening as a Pastime
The lawns are mowed the grass removed, starve it if you can,
Start in March or sooner, cut it twice a week's the plan,
Grows like mad till the summer, then brown and crusty goes,
Precious water sprinkled on, the time and cost who knows.
Had the mower sharpened, through mole hills it has cut,
They're only after earth worms, to fill their little gut,
Got to have a blow hole, to push the soil out,
Maize of tunnels under the lawn, so tough and black and stout.
The roses get the green fly, the taters get the blight
The cabbage get the caterpillars, what a blooming sight,
Apples there are plenty, grub hole in every one,
Birds have pecked the plums, the rot it has begun.
The wasps are round the jam pot, flies around the meat,
Its summertime enjoy it, try getting out the heat,
Cooler in the evenings, sit in the garden to relax,
Midges bite your arms and legs, round ya head attacks.
Cut the hedge about three times, clearing up the leaves,
Hawthorne holly and brambles, full of thorns it heaves,
Fingers sore and bleeding, enjoy the job they say,
Out in fresh air and sunshine, all this work no pay.
Nettles in the corners, tackle then if you dare,
Just the lightest touch from one, it'll make you swear,
Cut they come again times ten, fresh and green as ever,
Save them for the butterflies, neglect'll mek ya look clever.
Green fingers what a laugh, muck builds up under nails,
It keeps you fit and healthy, keeps ya weight off the scales,
Organically grown is good for you, but pests they are a pest,
Work with nature is what they say; you can only do your best.
Countryman
This is the bit the misses looks after and is in charge of, were both getting no younger and the veg garden went some years ago. Its trim the lawn, trim the bushes, cut the hedge (with the tractor flail hedge cutter I can manage that job well) boarders and bedding plants to the minimum, just enough to give a bit of colour and interest.
This is my effort on the yard in an old concrete water trough last year. No farmer ever looks at the flowers twice, but study what in the background, an old upturned grain hopper, five bays filled with HAY, and some haylage under cover, silage bales are stacked outside out of the picture. My loader will only reach to stack three bales high, thats it on the Agrotron in the background, and the hedge cutter on the Fastrac. The old barn legs have started rotting and have had a tump of concrete two foot up the legs. Standing parked between the green tractor and the barn, the Landrover flat trailer with an old three furrow Fordson Elite Plough, trust me if you look real close, you can see two levers sticking up, to see a better picture of the plough press the tag "Tractors", or" Plough" it on the page or blog (Two More of my Tractors".
This is just a farmers view of a tub of flowers, one line of writing for the flowers, and six lines for the background, think thats pretty normal.
Around this time also that it was fashionable to sow turnips from the air in June /July into the standing crops of corn, (wheat barley or oats). In this case it was barley, and the top end of the field was a single cottage, folks came out of their village houses to watch the aerobatics as the plane swooped low over the crop, dodging hedge row trees, then up almost vertical, turn and back down for the next run. The man in the cottage watched as it swooped and turned short of his house, having got a grandstand seat so to speak. In the next few months the crop of barley was combined, and the rain and moisture had germinated a good stand of turnips in the stubble, trouble was the cottage garden had also got turnips growing in the garden, and worse still, a full and vigorous crop was growing in the gutters and spouting all round the house. Of coarse when the seed was being dropped no one knew why he was diving and swooping and the turnip seed is so fine and no dust trail as the seed fell.
It was only a few years that that aerial spreading of seeds and sprays lasted, as the drift into adjoining fields and crops, and houses brought it to be banned, so the turnips sprouting in the spouting only happened the one year in our village.
This same cottage, the occupant often went to the local market to take eggs to sell, often a sitting of hen and bantam eggs. It was in the spring he came home with a sitting of goose eggs, and set them under a couple of broody hens, they duly hatched and rapidly grew bigger than the old mother hen, they started running and flapping their wings when they were loosed out in the mornings , as geese do. Then to his amazement one morning they took off, and flew round and landed back in the garden, soon they flew off for half an hour or more but always came back. The sitting of eggs he had bought were that of Canadian Geese, and in the autumn one morning they took off and he never saw them again. No goose for Christmas for him.
If there is no gardener there is no garden
Stephen Covey
This is a short report on the Staffs Vintage Machinery Club ploughing match at Seighford Staffordshire 5th April 2009.
After having nearly a month of dry conditions the land was in excellent order for such an event, the morning started with a slight frost which the sun soon shifted and remained fine and bright all day.
Ploughmen came from all over the midlands the furthest it seems travelled some 180 miles from Carmarthen in the south west Wales, another 165 miles from that same direction. In the north West it was as far as 110 miles, North East 100 miles North 104miles, and numerous others from all points east.
There were ninety seven tractors entered and from the look in the field there was only just the odd gap left here and there due to none arrival. All ploughing had been completed by two o'clock, and by three the raffle drawn. My wife and I were honoured to be asked to present the prizes and cups to the winning ploughmen, in the usual tight circle of round the table full of trophies.
From the comments I had back in general everyone seemed to have had a good day out, with a lot of spectators including folk from the village had walked down.
Being host to such a large gathering made it difficult to concentrate on my own ploughing, talking too long at the end of each bout, seeing folk who I have not seen for a long while which included my own brother who live a long way east (an hour and a half). Had I realised I could have entered him in the match with a spare old B250 International and a trailer plough of mine. However he had got a second mission that day as well as the match, family tree investigations.
By this morning, Monday morning, the contractors came to spread the huge pile of muck obliterating all the excellent ploughing that had taken place the day before. By mid afternoon the ploughman arrived and had completed over ten acres. With rain expected for the rest of the week, it will be good to finish the messy job of muck spreading , another four hours in the morning would see it done, although its not been too messy today.
I will try and post a few picture, as and when I get hold of them.
Fred
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